Summer and Ice
by I Am Sweden
Summary: Written in response to Kimchi71399's "APH 100 day fanfic challenge": America only wanted to end Russia's reign of oppressive Communism. After all, he -is- the hero, right? But even the hero didn't expect Russia's little sister to spice things up...
1. Introductions

***This fic is written in response to Kimchi71399's "APH 100 day fanfic challenge", which I stupidly accepted because I want some cookies.**

'**Cause cookies are good.**

**Anyway, the pairing here is BelAme! Cold War. Explanation enough? XD**

**Summer and Ice**

**Chapter 1- Introductions**

"I can't be the one to blame for starting this war with that commie," Alfred muttered, dejectedly spinning in the office chair before his boss. "I've already got a bad rep with you-know-who after World War II."

"That wasn't your fault, America. Truman told you to drop the bombs."

America's young face scrunched in pain, that awful day coming back to him full force. It was a dirty blow for anyone, using such unrelenting, raw destruction to end a war. Japan was still gravely injured from the attack, taken care of by China and his other siblings. It was likely everyone in the world was terrified of him now; America, the nation with the power to blow your land to smithereens.

Everyone… but Russia.

America and Russia had briefly met for the first time at some friendly party hosted by Italy, celebrating his becoming a country after countless years of trying to convince both the Papal states and the other city-states to gather together into one. The bright, young Italian had instantly wanted to get to know anyone and everyone who were fellow nations. America hadn't wanted to go to stupid Europe where awful Brits and those smelly Frenchies were, but he hated the idea of himself ending up like lonely, xenophobic Switzerland.

So, deciding against President Monroe's doctrine about America staying put on his own darned continent, he had gone.

Russia had been a jolly, big man with a lovely (albeit ditzy) big sister and a fetish for sunflowers. He was also filthy stinking rich, but not exactly on board with everyone else's rapid industrialization. Russia was old-fashioned and a bit on the crazy side himself, but America had liked him well enough.

Then there was the war with Japan. The Russo-Japanese war had changed both parties into something neither liked. Russia's people revolted. America thought it would turn out just like his revolution; there would be hard feelings for a while, but they'd adjust soon enough.

He was wrong- terribly, terribly wrong.

Thousands of people died on Bloody Sunday, washing Russia's once cultural and bright land in darkness and hatred unlike ever before. When America next saw Russia during peace delegations after his war with Japan, he was nothing like the man from Italy's celebration. He emitted an aura of insanity that made everyone wary of his overly-friendly smile. He carried a lead pipe, of all things, as a weapon, further adding proof to his being a madman.

Russia had transformed into a sinister nation, that was sure.

And who could have been a greater hero to save him from communism than Mr. Democracy himself, America, the world's hero? He couldn't let Russia spread his stain of communism to other countries like he already had to China- he couldn't let the world steal itself the freedom it deserved! He was America, land of the Free!

However, there was one thing keeping America from his kick-but-AWESOME deeds as "Hero of the World".

That one thing, of course, was Russia's little sister.

America began to think this wasn't going to turn out well at all.


	2. Beach

**Well, this one is considerably longer than the last chapter, and Belarus actually shows up! XD**

**Chapter 2- Beach Days**

America shivered violently as the wind ripped through him, stealing his warmth away for itself. Snow swirled away, adding his visible breaths to its ranks. All in all, America was slowly freezing himself into Russia's cold, rocky land. It hadn't been his first secret mission to the Commie's land for a little espionage, but after the night of frozen terror he had been subjected to, he was sure it would be his last.

How did Russia stand the cold? Years of experience?

Forcing his weary legs to trudge on through the thick blanket of snowy death, America rubbed his parka-covered arms in an attempt to warm his thickly gloved hands. It was _too cold._

The scenery around him slowly grew darker and darker with the nightfall, adding a new layer of eerieness to the wasteland around him. However much America wanted to turn around and run back to his plane and thus back home, he knew he couldn't- at least, not without some new information. Russia was building his military, but America did not know to what extent. Not that he was particularly afraid. He had more nukes than Russia had snow.

America entertained himself with the thought as he walked, focusing on his achievements instead of how hypothermia must have been creeping up his toes and fingers to his legs and arms.

He kept walking in a straight line, shaking with every step. America paused when his foot sank deeper into the ground. Curious, he kicked the snow aside and crouched down to look at the soft mud below it. America uncurled his hands from under his armpits and scooped up the mud. He was surprised to find it grainy, like frozen sand.

Standing, he peered through the fog and storm at the darkness before him. The white snow ended abruptly with the slosh of waves against the shore.

What was this supposed to be? Russia's sorry excuse for a beach?

His mind went back to the beaches on his land. There was sunshine aplenty and laughs resounding with each crash of waves against the warm shore. Colorful myriads of fish swam around between one's legs, almost blending in with the bright shells that littered the sea floor. The only thing bluer than the endless oceans was the sky. Perfectly white clouds lazily flew by, not providing much shade, but being sunburned was just another part of the experience. America felt a rush from the memories of countless hours surfing on these beautiful seas, each wipeout and each laugh thereafter fresh on his mind.

It didn't seem possible that any beach any where, even Russia, could not hold the same splendor.

Before America knew what he was doing, he stood at the shore, just inches from the water's reach. The dark sea looked cruel and unforgiving, just waiting to pull him under its frozen depths and steal him away forever. So unlike his beaches, where fun and happiness were anywhere and everywhere one looked.

"Your hand will freeze if you touch it," a harsh voice resounded behind him.

America swirled around, pulling out his pistol. When he saw Belarus, her pale hair furiously whipping around her even paler face, he knew there was going to be a fight. She would try and shove him into the water, screaming at him for daring to step foot on her brother's land.

But contrary to this thought, Belarus simply stepped past him, carelessly pushing his gun out of her face. She quietly stood beside him for a moment, staring out at the sea. When she next spoke, America strained to catch her words before General Winter stole them. "It truly is a wonder how something so pretty can be so dangerous."

_Like you?_ America's traitorous mind wondered. He scowled out at the world, angry at himself. _She is Russia's sister. She has tried to kill me multiple times. She is anything _but _pretty. She is-_

Belarus suddenly flicked her navy eyes to him, cutting his mental rant short. Murder was back in these eyes, making America involuntarily gulp. They weren't but a step apart from each other. If Belarus had a knife (actually, he knew she had a knife; she carried, like, seven around with her at all times), she could easily swing out and slit his throat. But then again, she was, at the moment, unarmed while America still had a death grip on his pistol. He would get her first.

Her eyes searched his face for a moment, finding indecision and confusion mixed with longing and nostalgia. She wondered why he hadn't already took off running, casting silly American threats and waving his gun around in the air like it was actually something to fear. That was what countless other bouts had resolved in.

But today… today was different. America shook something fierce, trying his hardest not to let his discomfort show to the girl. Belarus had already seen enough of his pathetic shivering whilst she trailed him, easily following his elephant footsteps through the snow. She had had the intention of sneaking up on him and stabbing a knife or two in his back, but seeing him stop at the sand had somehow erasing the intention from her mind. Belarus and stopped and watched in wonder as the American discovered that Russia, too, had beaches and sand. She had practically felt the heat radiate from him when his own beaches no doubt came to mind.

America was her enemy. She hated America. She wanted America dead and under her brother's foot.

But he was so warm. So warm and so full of hope. He was untainted by the centuries of hardship and sorrow Belarus had been subjected through.

He… he was everything her brother was not.

They were both strong, yes, and both filled with ambitions. Yet America had a different kind of strength. He was strong from his own past hardships and sorrows, strong from having so much faith within his people and their freedom.

She respected him for that.

Respect. Nothing but cold, traitorous respect.

If Russia found out she had "respect" for his sworn enemy, he wouldn't bat an eyelash had throwing her into this icy water. Because that was wrongful thinking. That was disloyalty. That was rightfully deserving of death.

Belarus was not stupid. She knew her brother no longer loved her like he once had. She knew her brother loved power and control much more than his crazy little sister.

Crazy? Belarus was not crazy. She was merely following her brother's wishes. She followed his wishes, became his perfect weapon, because she loved him. There was nothing Belarus loved more than her beloved Russia.

Nothing but the feel of sun on her face.

Long ago, before General Winter consumed her soul in icy dread, Belarus had longed to be in the sun. She would spend entire days draped over the ground, smiling up at the sun that had graced her with its presence. The ground was always so cold, but the sun kept her spirits high and her face alit with unimaginable happiness.

What had happened to those days? The days she would smile and laugh and revel in her life under the sun's happy rays?

Looking at his bluing face, glasses foggy and askew on his nose, Belarus realized that he was just like her.

This man- this America- lived under the sun every day. He was not plagued with the icy chill of death each day. No, he was happy. Always laughing. Nothing could bring him down.

Belarus flinched back when America reached his hand for her face. She hissed and swatted it away. "Don't touch me!"

He was grimly silent for a moment before dropping his gun, grabbing her wrist and wiping off the tears she hadn't felt coursing down her cheeks. America stunned her yet again by suddenly pulling her into him, her frame a stick between his marshmallow arms.

"It _is _beautiful," he agreed. "But don't you think it'd be better with smiling people? People who are free to come here and see how beautiful it is?"

It would be.

But Belarus wouldn't- couldn't- accept that.

Snarling, she kneed up in his gut and shoved him away from her. "Don't. Touch. Me. Again," she threatened, flashing one of her knives in his face when he doubled over.

Belarus turned and stalked away.

When America's obnoxious laugh was heard over the howl of the wind, Belarus gritted her teeth and threw a knife that whistled a centimeter from his ear. America straightened and gave her a crooked grin. "Your aim's a little off, toots!"

"Call me that again and I swear I'll land a knife in your-"

"You'll have to come by my place sometime," he interrupted. "I've got pretty beaches like this two. But, like, with water that won't eat you."

Belarus exhaled slowly before turning away again.

She did not tell him she would like that.


	3. Study

**Chapter 3- The Western Side Part 1: Study**

Belarus was furious. Out for America's blood.

This… this was _worse _than going against her beloved brother's wishes. This was _worse _than the time America had "accidentally" sent her dead and rotten roses with a sweet message inside that said he hoped the rats in the USSR didn't eat them when she planted them outside.

This was absolutely unforgivable.

A thousand curses in Belarusian, Russian, Ukranian, Lithuanian, and Polish ran through her minds. She was a fluent cusser in every Eastern European language and a few Asian countries like Mongolia, China, Korea, and Japan's languages. Who said there wasn't an upside to being the communist leader of the world's little sister?

But she did not have time to sit around and enjoy her foul-mouthed accomplishments. Belarus was going to _murder _America, as slowly and painfully as humanly- and nationly- possible.

_No one _spells her name as "Bye, Russian!"

Big Brother _specifically _gave her the name "Byelorussian". A glorious name. A name that surely he would only give to his future wife.

And ABSOLUTELY no one scrawled "REMEMBER: YOU AGREED TO LET POLAND HAVE HER LAND" under the hideous American insult to her breathtaking name.

Belarus hoped her brother wouldn't mind that she massacred his archenemy instead of allowing him that glorious honor.

This means for _nuclear war._

And it all began when Russia sent her to spy on America.

She had studied American culture for weeks before her journey into the land of unknown stupidity and obnoxiousness. The sixties in America had beheld short dresses, absurd beehive and flipped hairdos, and a strange man named Elvis Presley who was quite frightening to Belarus, if she were honest. No man, American or otherwise, should have been able to move his hips like that. It was strange and unnatural and so utterly _American _that Belarus began to doubt if she'd ever survive her experience in the Western land.

However, these fears would not keep her from obeying her brother's wishes. Besides- if she found some juicy information on America that could help Russia finally pull an overwhelming battle against him, he might congratulate her by finally agreeing to marry her!

After Belarus was sure she had gotten the "American" look down, she took to further studying American culture by watching several movies. Belarus knew enough English from her multiple encounters with America and his brother, Britain, so it wasn't too hard to make sense of these strange movies.

Almost everyone was a smack in the face. Haughty America, putting down the glorious rule of Communism by Russia! How could he possibly?

And what the heck did it mean for Luther Heggs to yell "_Why don't you run up an alley and holler fish_?"

This movie- this _The Ghost and Mr. Chicken_- was surprisingly not half bad. Although it lacked true horror (she believe if one were to include the word "ghost" in the title of a movie, it had to be horrific), it did cause a few chuckles to leave her mouth.

When Belarus finally arrived in America, dressed in a geometric-print short dress with her hair tied up, she believed she looked the part. It would be frightfully easy to fool America into giving her information now! And after she delivered the information she procured to Russia, she would get her revenge on America for the horrible injustice he had given to her name.

Byelorussian was beautiful.

So was to be America's butchered body, after she was finished with him.


	4. Cooking

**Chapter 4- On the Western Side Part 2: Cooking**

If it were even _more _possible, Belarus hated America even more after her first day walking around D.C. She had been minding her own business, snooping around buildings to see if they were secret anti-communist government centers (she found none, but she still had this _feeling_…), when Belarus caught sight of herself in a store window. She froze, causing the stupid America walking behind her to accidentally run into her. After hissing him away, Belarus shakily lifted a hand to her face. The warmth and pain she felt under her palm was nearly unbearable.

What was this? Had America snuck up on her and injected her with some poison that made her bright red and so pained? _No_, Belarus thought to herself. _America is not that stealthy._

Belarus felt several people staring into her back. Suddenly self-conscious, Belarus tugged on her too-short skirt and broke into a brisk walk. The sooner she got to her hotel and figured this mystery out, the better. However, she soon discovered that this mysterious red about her was beginning to prove painful as she walked.

When she finally arrived at her hotel, tearing through the lobby to demand her key and room, her skin was on fire. Simply standing still felt as though she was being dipped inch by agonizing inch into a volcano.

"M-Ma'am?" the hotel manager squeaked.

The blonde stopped, narrowing her eyes down the empty. "_What _do you _want?_" she snarled slowly, without turning.

She could easily hear his gulp. Stupid American. "I-I-I-I-if y-you need s-something for your sunburn, I-I could-"

Belarus grew tired of his stuttering and marched tightly to her room. Honestly, what was wrong with these stupid Americans? Did they not know how to leave someone alone? Or did they not know how to detect obvious danger?

Moving slowly, riddled with pain, Belarus lay out on her back, staring up at the stupid American ceiling above her. Everything about this place was so… so infuriating!

America's citizens, walking around in the sun and laughing as if they weren't in the middle of a war. People talking about the latest fashions and styles and prints available. Everyone so _carefree and happy._

_Why aren't my citizens happy like this?_

Belarus grabbed the blanket beneath her, clenching the warm, soft fabric between her fingers. _Why don't my people have warm blankets like this?_

There was a radio in the corner of the room on a small round table, a convenient chair situated beside it. She jealously scowled at the machine, hating it for being _here _and not _there_. These American radios played oral stories and rock songs, not government information and regulations. They brought smiles to people's faces instead of suppressing them like those in Soviet Union.

She hated America.

She hated America because he had everything she wanted.

((((()))))

Belarus wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep, but she did know when she woke up. The pain from her "sunburn", as the man had called it, was utterly unbearable. No matter what she did, the pain and the bright red would not go away. Ice cold baths did not help, nor did stretching and hoping to shake it off. That only made it worse.

But she had to go back. She had to find a decent piece of information for her brother. If she didn't, he would never marry her. She had to find _something!_

Even more people stared at her this time. Children stopped their family walk to point at her and wonder why she was so red. Their parents would tell them to shush, murmur something along the lines of "that poor girl", and carry on their way. Yes. Poor Belarus.

She walked around for hours, feeling more worse every second. By seven o'clock, when the heat was finally starting to die down, Belarus just wanted to scream. And she would, too. At the next child that pointed, the next hurried business man that bumped into her. The next time she heard something about The Beatles, The Who, or those awful Rolling Stones.

At first Belarus didn't notice the curious young man walk up to her. She had shut her eyes, lightly leaning against the front window of some knock-off Italian place. Belarus hadn't bothered trying to read it. Exhaustion took away much of her will to do anything besides sleep.

Then she felt movement in front of her face. Belarus angrily snapped her eyes open. "What do you think you're-"

_America _stood in front of her, bright eyes wide behind his glasses. Belarus also wore glasses as part of her disguise. The grinning blonde leaned back and placed his hands back in his pockets. "It's such a fine day," he started, "don't you think?"

Belarus was at a loss for words. Did he see through her disguise so quickly, and was now mocking her with pleasantries? Or did he _seriously _walk up to random strangers begin a round of small talk?

America seemed to be waiting for a reply. Belarus blinked and replied in her best American accent, "It is, thank you."

"Uh, not sure when 'it's a fine day' turned into a complement, but you're welcome."

She was glad her "sunburn" hid the flare that rose to her cheeks in embarrassment. America laughed anyway, suddenly lacing his arm through hers. "How about we take a walk, ma'am?"

_Follow him, _a voice said eagerly in her head. _Follow him and make him tell you all his secrets!_

"I know this nice place down the block that serves the best beef stroganof," America started excitedly. "I can get you something for your sunburn and then we can we go out to eat."

A wave of confusion washed over her. _…He's taking a _stranger _out to eat? What is _wrong _with him?_

However, she agreed to let him drag her down the sidewalk until the city began to fade into quaint suburban houses. Belarus could smell the barbecues taking place behind these houses, and could hear the laughs from more happy people. America seemed to have a lot of those.

"This is my place," he explained, unhooking their arms to dig for his keys in his pockets. At last he pulled them out and led her inside. America went straight to the kitchen. "My older brother taught me this trick. It's the only reason I ever keep tea in the house."

When America noticed her standing in the door, he beckoned her inside. "You can sit at the table. This'll take a while to boil. I'll start on that beef, too."

"I thought you said you knew where a good restaurant was?" Belarus asked lightly, slightly wincing when her accent slipped up at the end.

Still, America did not notice.

He spun around with a grin. "No restaurant. But I do make a mean beef stroganof, if I say so myself. Alrighty! When this is finished boiling, we have to let it cool. Then you have to dab this stuff on your sunburn. Sounds absurd, I know," America laughed at her disgusted expression, "but it really works. You'll be feeling like you can run a marathon by tomorrow, I guarantee it. Besides, the more British this stuff is, the quicker it annoys away the burn. Earl Gray. The tea for old blimeys."

Quite a while passed. After their short, quiet dinner, Belarus did as she was told. The tea, surprisingly, felt wonderful. When she came back downstairs, America was standing at the front door, a cheerful smile on his face.

"How about you stay the night, too?" he asked.

"Belarus."


	5. Truth or Dare

**Good Lord, I almost forgot about this. DXXX But no worries! I am GONNA finish this. All 100 chapters. Besides, only 95 to go with this one. -^-**

**Chapter 5- On the Western Side Part 3: Truth or Dare**

"Belarus."

The way he said her name was accompanied by a sly grin that topped the charts of her "Stupid American Things". The way he _said it _brought up a flare in indignation to her cheeks. She was sure it was redder than her sunburn, because America's awful grin widened. He lifted up her chin with his fingers. "Think I'm too dense not to notice a foreigner amongst my own citizens?" America asked. "I believe we need to have a little talk, my dear."

Belarus hissed and batted his hand away. "Didn't I tell you last time we saw each other _not to touch me?_"

He shrugged. _Shrugged. _If Belarus had half the knives she carried around in the USSR, he would be SKEWERED TO THE WALL. And bleeding. Bleeding her favorite shade of red all over his obnoxious cream-colored walls and into his weird orange shag carpet.

"I _could _have grabbed you on the arm, but I figured I'd be a little nice," he said acidly, grabbing her wrist, "because if you were here to _spy _on me, I'm afraid I won't be able to treat you as a guest anymore.

The blonde scratched at his hand to release her, but America was completely unfazed. He less than gently threw her on the couch. "Alright. Speak. Tell me the truth."

"I wanted to force your silly Americans to adopt Belarusian culture."

"By wearing American clothes?" he countered swiftly, swiping her cat-like glasses off her nose. Belarus's glare was icy enough that she got a satisfying shiver out of America. However, he quickly recovered with another quip. "And American's aren't 'silly' enough to run outside all day without putting on _sunscreen_."

So she underestimated him. Belarus vowed it would never happen again. Instead, she held her head high in defiance, crossing her legs despite the pain from her hated sunburn. Belarus was above him. One day soon, she would be married to Russia, and she would be unstoppable. No one- especially America- would be able to touch her then. "I was sent here to spy on you," she answered honestly, haughtily. "However, I haven't found much of interest. You and your Americans are such dull fools."

America crossed his arms, a smirk quirking at his frown. It was getting harder and harder by the second to keep up his all-serious face. Apparently had never gotten that look from Britain, and he was mighty proud of it. "My Americans are simply enjoying themselves. Can you say the same about your Belarusians?"

He had found the crack. Belarus screeched and launched herself at him, bringing the surprised American flat on his back. "Nothing is wrong with my country!" she screamed at him. "We're fine! We're fine! I'M fine! We do not need your sun and radios and TV's! We do not need you!"

"Really? Then I dare you- say that again without tears in your eyes! If that's really the truth, why are you crying?"

"Because I _hate you!_"

Her echoing shout reverberated through the house. Belarus could practically hear his neighbors cease their pleasant afternoon chatter to stare towards the house uncertainly, curious and fearful as to what was happening inside. She panted for breath, clenching his jacket between her fingers. Glared down into his bright blue eyes, the same hue as the sky.

All she needed was to put her hands around his neck and squeeze until she could not see the sky in his eyes anymore. Until… until through her tears of jealousy and longing could she not see the sun in his smile. Until she couldn't see his face altogether.

But she didn't. Belarus could not move her hands away from his arms, pinning him down. He was her summer.

She was ice.

True to this revelation, Belarus's resolve melted. It wasn't a matter of whether she would or would not- she _couldn't_ take away the closest thing to warmth around her.

Belarus let go of his jacket. Bowing her head in shame, she stood up and stepped away so he could stand again. America stood cautiously, but didn't make any move to subdue her. He didn't speak.

So she spoke first. "Russia sent me here to spy on you and get government information for him to use against him. I leave tomorrow. Since I have no other information for him, I'm going to tell him the location of your house."

"This isn't my house," America said. At Belarus's blank stare, he explained: "It's Britain's, for when he comes over. Did you seriously think I'd keep tea in my cabinets, sunburn or no? I hate the stuff. As far as you know, I could live up north with my good buddy Canada. Who's one of Russia's _friends_, for whatever reason."

"Russia does not have friends outside of the Soviet Union."

"Apparently you haven't met Canada."

Belarus squared her shoulders. "I'm going now. If I see you set foot on my or my brother's land again, I will not be merciful."

"Same for you, darling," America smirked, flipping a stray hair in her face over her shoulder.

She punched him in the gut. "Last time. Do. Not. TOUCH. Me."

Before she left, America called out to her. "Thanks for telling me the truth, Belarus. But next time I want you to take up on that dare."

An interesting Estonian curse left her mouth.


End file.
